//------------------------------// // Vinyl Scratch and Octavia // Story: Affection Therapy // by Blazewing //------------------------------// Not long after Marble and Limestone have departed, the clock strikes 2. The instant the reverberation of the chimes die away, there’s a knock at the door. Except, it’s not like any normal knocking that you’ve ever heard before. There’s a musical rhythm to it, though you can’t say you know the song it’s replicating. Admittedly, you’ve been guilty of similar behavior before, when you had a song stuck in your head; you just feel the urge to dance, tap out the beat, or even sing to yourself. You get stared at for it much less here in Ponyville than you did in Manehattan. “Come in!” you call. The door opens, accompanied by a refined and exasperated female voice saying, “For Celestia’s sake, Viny, there was no need for that.” Two mares enter, only this time, both enter under their own steam, rather than one being shunted along by the other. Other than that, you feel deja vu strike you once again. One of the mares is a unicorn with a white coat, an electric-blue mane and tail that are both in a state of extreme frizziness, a slightly chubby figure, and an eighth note for a cutie mark. A pair of purple headphones circle her neck. Her eyes are completely obscured by a pair of purple-tinted sunglasses, and her head bobs from time to time, as if she’s listening to music in her head, all with a complacent smile on her face. The other mare has a gray coat, light-purple eyes, a long and well-groomed black mane and tail, a slender, if slightly curvy, figure, and a treble clef for a cutie mark. A collar and pink bow tie decorate her neck. She has a dignified, poised look to her. You’ve seen these two before.  The first pony is Vinyl Scratch, though she’s more often known by her stage name, DJ-PON3. As that name implies, she’s a DJ who’s often hired to provide music at parties and clubs. You’ve seen her working her magic behind the turntable at some of Pinkie’s parties. Her bass-heavy music is rather hard on the ears, but it does get the blood pumping and make one want to dance. As for the other pony, her name is Octavia. She’s a cellist who happens to be part of an orchestral ensemble. You’ve seen her performing at more reserved functions, filling the air with the deep and sonorous notes of her cello. It’s nothing short of musical bliss listening to it. It’s a bit surprising, therefore, to see two ponies who represent two completely opposite genres of music standing together in your office. “Good afternoon, Vinyl Scratch, Octavia,” you say, politely. “Good afternoon,” says Octavia, giving you a small but kind smile. Vinyl silently nods in token of acknowledgment. “I have to say, I’m a little surprised to see you both here,” you say. “My roster says that Vinyl is scheduled for an appointment at this hour, and you’re scheduled right after, Octavia.” “Ah, yes,” says Octavia. “I do beg your pardon for this bit of confusion. The both of us had signed up for therapy sessions on the same day, one after the other, coincidentally enough.” “I see,” you say, though this didn’t really answer your question. “Did you want to exchange sessions, or was there something else you had in mind?” “Oh, no, no,” says Octavia, earnestly. “We have no complaints about the scheduling at all. It’s just that Vinyl needed me to accompany her to her session.” “Is that so?” you ask. “Would it be all right to ask the reason? I’m perfectly fine with her having accompaniment during her session, of course. I’m just wondering if it’s due to shyness or a different reason.” Octavia looks inquiringly at Vinyl, as if she’s silently asking for permission to keep speaking. You can’t see Vinyl’s expression behind those large shades of hers, though you could swear you saw her raise an amused eyebrow at being suspected of being shy. Nevertheless, she looks at Octavia and nods. Looking mollified, Octavia says, “Vinyl’s mute, you see, and she needs an interpreter.” And now it clicks in your brain. Now that you think about it, in all the times you’d seen Vinyl Scratch around town or at her parties, you can’t recall ever hearing her speak a word. You’ve always just chalked that up to her being lost in the beat of her music. You didn’t know she actually couldn’t speak. “Ohh, I see,” you say, slowly. “I had no idea. I’m sorry.” Vinyl waves her hoof airily, as if to say she’s not at all offended. She then makes other signs with her hooves. Octavia watches her, then says, with some amusement in her voice, “She says ponies are always shocked to learn that, given how bombastic her music is. I certainly was when we first met. She’s long learned to live with it, but it’s sometimes difficult for ponies to know what she wants unless they know PSL. Fortunately, I had been studying it before the two of us became acquainted,” she adds, with a hint of pride as she puts her hoof to her chest. Vinyl gives her a small bump with her hip, earning her a reproving look. “Oh, please,” Octavia says, “as if you never preen yourself about your talents.” Vinyl makes a careless gesture with her hoof, as though to wave off Octavia’s comment. “I see,” you say. “I’m afraid I haven’t done enough study on Pony Sign Language myself. I always meant to, but somehow or other, I never got around to it.” “Understandable,” says Octavia. “I simply hope you don’t mind me being here for her session.” “Not at all, Octavia,” you say. “One of the prime commitments of affection therapy is proper accommodations for clients. If having you here will make Vinyl more comfortable during her session, then by all means. Plus, we’ll be able to move right into your session afterwards, so it’s win-win.” “I quite agree,” says Octavia. “With that said,” you say, “please, make yourselves comfortable.” Vinyl crosses over to the couch and leaps, or rather vaults, onto it, making the frame creak from the sudden impact, and making you jump slightly. You don’t distrust the sturdiness of the couch, as Vinyl’s by no means the heaviest pony to come in for a session, but no pony you’ve known has ever turned the simple act of sitting down into such a cavalier demonstration. “Vinyl!” snaps Octavia, in precisely the same tone as a mother scolding a naughty child. “This isn’t the time to practice your ‘stage dives’.” Completely unperturbed, Vinyl sits up in a relaxed slouch and runs a hoof through her messy mane, ruffling it. With an annoyed ‘tsk’, Octavia seats herself delicately on the floor beside Vinyl’s spot, giving her silky mane a prim flick, accompanied by a pointed look at her unicorn friend, as though purposefully trying to demonstrate proper decorum. It has no effect on Vinyl whatsoever. “Help yourselves, as well,” you say, gesturing to the plate of cookies. Vinyl grins, her horn lighting up. Two cookies float from the plate, and she levitates one in front of Octavia, almost hitting her on the nose. She shoots another reproachful look at Vinyl. “Thank you, Vinyl, but I’ll pass for now,” she says. Vinyl shrugs, brings both cookies in front of her face, and chows down on them, licking her lips and patting her stomach after. “Vinyl attends a lot of party functions,” says Octavia, dryly, “so she has a particular fondness for sweets and snack foods, hence that little belly of hers. I keep warning her that such a diet isn’t doing her weight any favors, but she never listens.” Vinyl simply sticks her tongue out at Octavia, whose nose crinkles indignantly. You confess to yourself that you’re a bit bemused by these antics, making you wonder if you’re witnessing some sort of comedy routine, but you decide it’s best to just press on. You clear your throat. “So, Vinyl,” you say, “what brings you here for a session? Do you have anything going on, or did you just want to see what affection therapy was like?” Vinyl gestures with both of her hooves, one after the other, miming holding something on top of each one. “A little of Column A, and a little of Column B,” Octavia translates. “She’s intrigued with the idea of affection therapy, but she’s also been feeling overtaxed with a surplus of performances.” Vinyl gesticulates to Octavia, waving her hoof in a negative fashion. Octavia rolls her eyes and sighs. “Of ‘gigs’, I mean,” she says, wincing as she says the word. “Such an uncouth word,” she mutters. “It’s hardly any wonder she’s tired,” she continues in a normal tone, “when most of these parties last until midnight.” “I see,” you say.  Vinyl starts making more gestures. “Vinyl, I’m sure he’s not interested in hearing about that,” says Octavia, snippily. Vinyl gestures again, this time more insistently. Octavia sighs. “Honestly, Vinyl,” she mutters. “What’s she saying?” you ask. “She’s recounting something ridiculous that happened at the last party she provided music for,” says Octavia. “I’ll spare you the details, but it was nothing short of cider-fueled chaos, thankfully without any involvement from Discord.” Vinyl gestures again. “No, I don’t think you should send him an invite to your next party. The last thing we need is the Spirit of Chaos cutting loose on the dance floor.” Vinyl shrugs. “Yes, it will suit myself, thank you very much,” says Octavia, loftily. This is getting a bit awkward, so you clear your throat, and both look up. Octavia’s cheeks turn as pink as her bowtie. “Dear me,” she mumbles. “So sorry about that.” “Don’t worry about it,” you say, genially. “Therapy’s all about airing out what’s grieving you, after all.” Octavia gives you a small smile. “So you’re feeling a bit of party burnout, huh, Vinyl?” you ask. Vinyl nods. “I can’t entirely say I know what that’s like,” you say. “I’ve never been much of a party person, though I do enjoy the parties that Pinkie throws.” Both mares nod in agreement. If there’s one thing no pony can ever quibble on, it’s the quality of Pinkie’s parties. “Of course, living in Manehattan, you have ponies who listen to music and party at all hours of the night,” you say, “along with the neighbors of said ponies who make even more noise trying to get them to shut up. It’s a vicious cycle.” Vinyl silently laughs. Octavia shakes her head in commiseration. “But I digress,” you say. “I’ll certainly see what I can do to help you relax and wipe away that feeling of stress. That’s what affection therapy is all about.” Vinyl grins. “Before we begin, though, do you have any restrictions? Anything you don’t want done during this session?” Vinyl thinks for a second or two, then taps the frame of her glasses purposefully. “She wants her sunglasses to stay on,” says Octavia. “She’s rather particular about wearing them, though I can’t see why. Everypony already knows who she is. It isn’t like she’s concealing some hidden identity.” You can’t see Vinyl’s eyes behind those shades of hers, but the movement of her head tells you that she just made a very pronounced eye-roll at Octavia’s comment. “Keep the glasses on,” you say, making a mental note. “All right, easy enough. Where would you like to start, Vinyl?” Vinyl points to her right ear, giving it a flick at the same time. “Ear scratches? Excellent choice. Make yourself cozy, and we can begin.” Without further ado, Vinyl stretches herself out on her stomach, so that she’s resting across your lap. You stare down at her for a moment or two, caught off guard, but she just grins up at you. You have to admire her boldness and ease of manner. Nothing seems to phase her or give her pause, even for a second. Of course, that kind of free-spiritedness might land her in trouble. Recovering yourself, you begin scratching at the base of her ear. Even though she’s already stretched herself along the length of the couch, as you scratch, you can feel her inch forward just a little more, her forelegs stretching out, and her hind legs as well. A sleepy smile crosses her muzzle, and her free ear flicks. She clearly can’t keep her cool and unflappable demeanor under the soothing influence of an ear scratch. After a time, you start scratching her other ear next. You didn’t believe it was possible, but she sinks even further into the feeling, as though she’s expecting to just melt into the couch. One of her hind hooves twitches, and she buries her chin against your leg. From your vantage, you can actually see past her sunglasses and down at her eyes, but, unsurprisingly, they’re hidden behind her blissfully closed lids. You glance up at Octavia, who’s watching all of this with a mixture of interest and amusement. You soon go from ear scratches to chin scritches, cupping her chin in your hand as you scratch it with your fingers. Vinyl tilts her head up, smiling dreamily, as her back hoof thumps against the opposite armrest. Even in the midst of affection bliss, there’s an unmistakable rhythm to those hoof thumps, tapping out a beat. It’s as if music is in her very blood. Still, it’s a wonder how her sunglasses are able to stay on her nose from the wriggling and shimmying she’s been doing while getting scritched. Eventually, you feel a tap on your arm. Looking down, you see that Vinyl has put her forehoof on it. You pause, gently removing your hand from her chin so she doesn’t just plop back down. “Everything going ok?” you ask. Vinyl nods with a smile, and then, without further ado, twists herself over so that she’s lying on her back. At the same time, she removes her headphones from around her neck and levitates them beside her, just before she lies down. Some quick reflexes on her part, you have to say. Looking up at you, she pats her belly. You don’t need Octavia to translate that for you. “A belly rub?” you say, smiling. “Of course.” Just as you’re moving your hand, however, Vinyl holds up a hoof to forestall you, then points to her headphones. You look from her to Octavia, puzzled. “She wants to know if she can wear her headphones during it,” says Octavia. “She didn’t bring any actual music with her, but she says just having her headphones on lets her hear the music in her head better, and it allows her to relax.” So Vinyl always has music going on in her mind? That’s pretty easy to believe; you can’t help but imagine that nearly every musician constantly has songs on the brain. “Is that right?” you ask. “Well, if it makes you feel more comfortable, Vinyl, then by all means. I’ll just give you a signal when time’s just about up. Ok?” Vinyl nods, then levitates her headphones over her ears, snapping them into place before laying her head back across your lap and folding her hooves across her chest. With that done, you place your hand on her pudgy middle and start rubbing in circles. She has surprisingly smooth fur for a mare with such a frizzy mane and tail, and while not as chubby as Pinkie, her tummy is still quite soft. Vinyl doesn’t make a sound, but you can almost feel the contented ‘Mmmm’ rising up from within her as she settles in. You brush your fingers along her side, gently tickling her, and she gives a little squirm, her mouth curling into an adorable little smile. You can’t help but feel that Vinyl is exactly the sort of pony who lives to be pampered and spoiled, even if she’s not as refined as Rarity. It’s quite cute. As you continue to rub her belly, one of her forehooves twitches, and she makes a grab at thin air, as though she’s trying to reach for something. Acting on a hunch, you gently touch her hoof with your free hand, and she wraps both hooves around it, clutching it to her chest just like a foal grasping a favorite toy. Her smile broadens ever so slightly, and you feel your heart melt.  With your palm to her barrel, you can feel the soft, muted thumping of her heart, which, contrary to what you might have expected from her already, beats with the same steady rhythm as a normal heart, rather than with a musical beat. Well, it’s just as well: an irregular heartbeat would be cause for concern. Octavia chuckles softly. “Just look at her,” she says. “She’s just like a filly in a grown mare’s body. Of course, she does quite a lot of silly and foalish things that she should know better about, and not just at the parties she attends. I feel like a foalsitter half the time I’m with her. Still, it’s rather precious seeing her act like this, when she can wind down and just relax. She deserves it.” You feel touched by the warmth in Octavia’s tone. She really does care about Vinyl, in spite of those brief moments of annoyance you observed. “You know her pretty well, don’t you?” you ask. “More than I ever thought I would,” says Octavia. “We are housemates, after all.” This little comment makes you pause for a moment, looking wide-eyed at Octavia. Catching yourself, you give your head a shake and continue belly-rubbing, all with Vinyl none the wiser for the momentary interruption. “I know, it sounds ridiculous,” says Octavia, guessing from the look on your face, “hearing that after seeing us as we are.” “Ridiculous?” you echo, hastily. “No, no, I wouldn’t say ridiculous. Unexpected, maybe, but not ridiculous.” “Well, you’re not the first to be surprised about it,” says Octavia, “nor will you be the last, I’m sure. It’s only been about a year or so.” “Oh really?” you ask. “And how did you and Vinyl become housemates? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking. I’m kind of intrigued to know how a cellist and a DJ became such good friends.” Octavia gives you a little smile. “I’d be happy to answer that,” she says. “I doubt Vinyl would object, though she can’t hear us anyway, through the combination of her internal soundtrack and a good tummy rubbing.” “Heh, true,” you say, glancing at the peacefully insensible unicorn lying across your lap. “It was quite a stroke of chance that we met,” says Octavia. “It was during our university days, when we went to the same college. We both took music classes, though, of course, our interests in music differed greatly. I was more interested in music appreciation, theory and composition, while Vinyl majored in music production and technology classes. That’s paid off handsomely with her skills behind her DJ booth. “Our paths didn’t cross often in those days. We’d pass by each other on the way to class, when she was surrounded by her peers, and I by mine. I could hear her music even with her headphones clamped over her ears. I thought it quite inconsiderate at the time, and frankly, I still do.” “I’ve never been a fan of that,” you say. “Then again, whenever I listen to music through headphones, I’m always paranoid that others can hear it. But please, continue.” “I also saw her at lunch, but she always sat by herself. It didn’t look like she minded; she seemed off in her own little world. Still, I couldn’t help wondering about it, when she always seemed to be in the thick of a crowd of ponies between classes. I was curious about this change, though I couldn’t really say why. “So, one day, I decided to strike up an acquaintance with her. That’s when I learned that she was mute. I learned from her gestures that she didn’t really have many friends, simply ponies who were impressed with what she made in class, but who couldn’t hold a real conversation with her. Some even thought she was stuck-up because of her silence.  “It explained a great deal to me, as I’d never heard her speak a word, despite how loud she liked to be with her music. I felt sorry for her, though I was sure she wasn’t looking for pity. Because I knew PSL, I strove to spend time with her and keep her company. I even introduced her to some of my own friends, some of whom became part of my ensemble today. I really do think she was grateful, though she never told me so with signs. She’s always liked to keep an aloof attitude about everything, and act as though nothing can surprise her, but deep down, I knew she appreciated my company, as I grew to appreciate hers.” “That’s very sweet,” you say. Vinyl gives a little squirm, and you look down at her, wondering if she could hear after all. However, she simply snuggles deeper into her relaxed position and dozes on, still clutching your hand. You and Octavia both smile down at her before looking back up at each other. “Please continue, Octavia,” you say. “We kept in touch after we both graduated. She moved to Ponyville, while I stayed in Canterlot to form my orchestral ensemble. Vinyl must have found out where and when we’d be performing, because I could nearly always spy her in the audience during one of our shows. I was amazed and touched by that level of devotion, to see that she was willing to make the trip to Canterlot just to see me play music outside of her usual interests. I returned the favor by attending one of her parties. My ears were ringing for days after, but it was well worth it. I’d never seen her so alive as when she was working her magic at the turntables, and my being there really made her happy, as she afterwards told me. Since then, we both have dabbled in each other’s tastes. Vinyl found some orchestral pieces she likes, and I found some discotheque music that didn’t numb my ears.” The two of you laugh, with Vinyl still none the wiser for it. “That’s incredible, the way you two found common ground,” you say. “I quite agree,” says Octavia. “There was one odd thing, however. Although I had Vinyl over to visit me at my home in Canterlot several times, I’d never seen her home in Ponyville, and she always avoided the subject when I brought it up with her.” “Is that so?” you ask, puzzled. “Yes. So, one day, I paid her a surprise visit.” Octavia pauses, swallowing before continuing. “I’ll never forget what I saw,” she says, grimly. “Vinyl was living in an apartment in a state nothing short of squalor. Trash and food containers lying about, dirty dishes piled in the sink, a positive miasma of rank odor permeating every square inch, and there she was, on a dirty couch, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and drink cans, still wearing that self-complacent smile of hers, acting as though she were seated upon a throne of polished gold.” You shudder. Octavia’s description paints a vivid picture of a dingy and derelict apartment in your mind, with Vinyl amidst the very debris and detritus she mentioned. “How did she let it come to that?” you ask. “Wasn’t she already a successful DJ?” “Yes,” says Octavia, “but she’s always been rather helpless when it comes to keeping neat and tidy. She also couldn’t practice her music for long at that apartment. She was already given fines for noise complaints by the neighbors, and she wasn’t on the best of terms with her landlord.” “I see,” you say, simply. “For the life of me, I couldn’t understand how she could live that way, or why she had never told me that was the condition she was living in. If I’d known, I would have done everything I could to help clean her home up and set her right.” “Did she give any reason for why she didn’t tell you?” you ask. Octavia sighs. “She didn’t want to worry me,” she says, quietly. “She knew I would fuss over her if I knew the truth, and she felt I had enough on my plate with my ensemble’s schedule to add herself to my list of concerns. She never wanted to be a burden to anypony, and she was determined not to become one for me.”  You look down at the snoozing unicorn. Who would have thought that beneath the aloofness and loud music was a thoughtful and caring soul, sacrificing her own needs to keep her friends happy? Appearances truly can be deceiving. “I was touched by her consideration towards me,” says Octavia, “but at the same time, she should never have allowed herself to reach such a state just because of that. I resolved then and there to do something about it, and in fact, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. I had been considering buying a home in Ponyville at the time, you see.” “Were you?” you ask. “I was,” says Octavia. “Canterlot is a lovely city, but it’s too noisy and busy, and it was beginning to stifle my creative spirit. I wanted someplace quiet and peaceful to settle down in and work on my compositions. The house I had my eye on was perfectly suited for just that, and it could easily accommodate two ponies.” “So you invited Vinyl to live with you, to get her out of her old lifestyle?” you ask. “Precisely,” says Octavia. “She was hesitant at first, but it didn’t take long for her to come around to the idea, once she knew how serious I was. I don’t think anypony has ever stuck their neck out for her the way I did before. And so, the two of us have been living together for almost two years now.” “That’s very sweet, Octavia,” you say, touched. “You really are a true friend to look out for Vinyl’s best interests like that.” Octavia smiles sweetly. “Thank you, dear,” she says. “It hasn’t always been easy, as you saw evidence of yourself. Vinyl’s still a bit careless, and she says I nag her worse than her mother ever did.” Octavia rolls her eyes at this. “Still, she has been taking strides to make sure I’m living just as comfortably as she is, and that we can both work on our music without disturbing each other. She’s quite handy with auditory spells, you see.” “Really? I never would’ve guessed.” “Nor would I. She’s always been full of surprises.” “So I can well believe,” you say. The clock chimes its 5 minute warning, making the both of you jump. Time really flew as you were talking with Octavia.  “Goodness,” says Octavia. “Have I been prattling on for that long?” “Oh, don’t call it prattling, Octavia,” you say, genially. “It was very nice hearing all of that from you. I appreciate you feeling comfortable enough to share it. I feel like I understand the two of you much better now.” Octavia smiles. You remove your hand from Vinyl’s belly and gently boop her nose. Her muzzle crinkles and she stirs, releasing your other hand, which you remove from her chest. She sits up, stretching and yawning silently, then moves her headphones back to rest around her neck. “Feeling better, Vinyl?” Vinyl nods earnestly. “I’m glad for that,” you say, smiling back. “Now you’ll hopefully be feeling fit and primed for your next gig.” Vinyl grins, showing her white teeth. “Now, would you like to sit here and wait for Octavia to finish?” you ask. Vinyl shakes her head, gesturing with her hooves. You look to Octavia to translate. “We both agreed that she’d wait for me at home,” says Octavia. “You’re very kind to offer, though.” Vinyl makes a couple more gestures, then puts her foreleg around your shoulders, giving you a friendly squeeze, while also giving you a light punch on the arm with her other hoof. Octavia giggles. “And that’s her way of saying ‘thank you,” she says. “You’re welcome, Vinyl,” you say. “Take care.” Vinyl hops down off the couch. She pauses at the table for a moment, then selects another cookie and gulps it down. Octavia simply shakes her head, and Vinyl walks to the door. She waves to Octavia, who nods in acknowledgement, then turns to you. Her horn lights up, and, to your surprise, she lifts her sunglasses up, showing a pair of vibrant, rose-pink eyes. She winks at you, puts her glasses back down, then takes her leave. “Well, look at that,” says Octavia, smiling. “Vinyl hardly lets anypony see her eyes under her sunglasses, unless she really trusts them. You must have rendered her a great service with your therapy, to trust you that way.” You can feel yourself blush at this sort of praise. “I’m glad to have helped her,” you say, modestly, “and I hope I can do the same for you.” The clock chimes 3 at that very moment. “And look at that,” you say. “We’re right on time. Please, have a seat, Octavia. Make yourself comfortable.” “Don’t mind if I do,” says Octavia, politely. You offer your hand to her. She places her hoof in it, and you assist her onto the couch, whereupon she seats herself gracefully. “I know you weren’t in the mood before,” you say, gesturing to the plate of cookies, “but the offer’s still open.” Octavia eyes the plate with interest, just as her stomach rumbles. Her cheeks briefly flush. “Now that you mention it, all that talk did make me rather peckish,” she says. “One wouldn’t hurt.” She selects a cookie from the plate and, just as Marble had done, daintily munches on it, holding it between both hooves. While you’re impressed with the delicate and refined way she eats, you also can’t help thinking of squirrels, seeing her hold and munch her food that way. You say nothing, of course, and the cookie soon disappears. You hand her a napkin to wipe her muzzle with. “Thank you,” she says, dabbing at her lips. “I don’t indulge in sweets very often, but I do enjoy the odd treat now and again. I know Vinyl couldn’t care less about her figure, but I try to keep myself in good shape, and I wish she’d do the same. I’ve been encouraging her to cook healthier meals rather than subsist on junk food. It’s a slow process, but it’s proving marginally successful. She’s eating less instant meals, anyway.” “Well, that’s good,” you say. “Even if it’s only baby steps, it’s still progress.” “Yes, I agree,” says Octavia. “Of course, whenever I bring up her weight at home, she just retorts that I’m more fit as a cello than as a fiddle.” You raise an eyebrow. “What does she mean by that?” you ask. “That I have big hips, very likely,” says Octavia, patting her sides. She is a bit curvy at the hips, as you noted when she first came in, but hardly cello-shaped, as far as you can see. Again, you keep your thoughts to yourself. “I suppose it sounded clever in her head,” she says, “but I think it got lost in translation when she put it into signs.” “Oh dear,” you say, somewhat bemused. “That’s just her way,” says Octavia. “She hasn’t got a mean-spirited bone in her body, but when she has something she wants to express, she doesn’t spare a syllable in signs, and she can be a bit bold in her vocabulary.” “I see,” you say. Truth be told, it’s a bit perplexing to hear someone spoken of as having a lot to say when they were completely silent, and could only communicate through sign language. Still, they do say that actions speak louder than words, and Vinyl certainly has no issues with being loud in other ways. “But I digress,” says Octavia. “I don’t want to talk your ear off with more chatter.” “Oh, please, don’t feel like you have to hold back on saying anything,” you say. “This is your session, after all.” Octavia smiles gratefully, then settles herself more comfortably on the couch. “So, Octavia, what inspired you to seek a therapy session?” you ask. “Curiosity? Fatigue?” “A little of both,” says Octavia. “Like Vinyl, I was fascinated by the sound of affection therapy. Well, fascinated and puzzled. Relaxation and contentment through ear scratches and belly rubs? I’d only ever seen it prove useful for dogs and cats, never for ponies.” “You’re not the first who’s wondered about it that way, believe me,” you say. “I don’t think you’ll be the last, either. There’s always going to be somepony who’s baffled by the idea of affection therapy.” Octavia giggles, then says, “Well, unusual as it sounded at first, the more I thought about it, the more I realized I genuinely needed it, especially as of late.” “How so?” Octavia rests her hoof against her temple, looking suddenly weary. “I’ve been going through composer’s block lately,” she says. “My ensemble has a performance coming up, and I promised a new solo piece on my cello. The trouble is, I’m having difficulty thinking up a song. I’ve been wracking my brain for days, but nothing’s come to me. I’ve had lapses before, but they’ve never been this bad…” You can certainly understand how that feels. You once thought about trying your hand at writing, but it didn’t come to anything. All you did was sit in front of a blank piece of paper, pen in hand, trying to bully your brain into a state of creativity, to no avail. Irritatingly, you found that you only had ideas flow while you were standing and walking around, but when you actually sat down to write, it all vanished. It was impossible. “Oh my,” you say, sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear. A creative block of any kind must be torture to deal with.” “It really is,” says Octavia. “The closer the date of our performance comes, the greater the pressure and the worse the stress. I was so sure I’d have something by now, but ever since I made that promise, it feels as though all of my creativity has ebbed away, and nothing I do to distract myself makes it any easier.” “What do you usually do to distract yourself?” you ask. “Oh, anything that gets me away from my cello and my mind off music,” says Octavia. “Reading, having some tea, taking a walk. They’ve always worked before, but somehow, this feels different, and nothing works anymore. It’s as if it’s because it’s something I promised would be done that’s making it so difficult.” Here, her voice grows louder, more agitated. “My mind just keeps drifting back to the deadline, and the fact that I’ve barely even started! I keep thinking about what will happen when the day comes, and I have nothing to show for it! I’ll just be standing there, on stage, looking like a fool! It’s driving me mad, but I don’t know what to do! I-don’t-know-what-to-do!” She presses both hooves against her temples now, taking deep breaths, her pupils shrunken to pinpoints. It’s quite distressing and alarming to behold, and it sends a pang through your heart to see her in such a state. Something instinctive tells you that what she needs right now is the assurance that she isn’t alone, and that you’re here to help her. So thinking, you put a hand to her shoulder, and that little act seems to do the trick. Her features slowly start to relax, her hooves lowering, her breathing becoming calmer. She tilts her head, so that her cheek is resting against the back of your hand. You can see tears sparkling in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to lose control like that. I’m usually more composed than this. I don’t even want Vinyl to see me like this...” “It’s all right, Octavia,” you say, gently. “That’s why you’re here: to let all of your grievances out and clear the air. Take the time you need to recompose yourself.” She sniffles and dabs at her eyes with the other end of the napkin she used. You sit in silence for a bit, letting her calm down, before speaking up again. “You know, I once heard a good remedy for relieving stress: playing the piano, and getting any aggressive feelings out by slamming the keys as hard as you can.” Octavia looks up at you. “Of course, I don’t know if the same method would work quite as well on a cello,” you admit. “No, I suppose not,” says Octavia. “I could scrape my cello bow across the strings, but what an evil hiss that would make. Besides, I’d rather not take my frustrations out on my dear musical partner when it’s my own lazy brain that won’t cooperate.” “Have you tried asking Vinyl for help?” you ask. Octavia blushes, looking away. “Well…she knows I have a solo coming up,” she says, awkwardly, “but I haven’t told her I’m suffering composer’s block. I didn’t want her to needlessly fret over me when it’s my burden to bear. She has enough to do with her own work without worrying about me.” Now where have you heard that before? These two really are kindred spirits. “In any case, her methods of clearing the mind are...a bit more boisterous and exuberant than I’m used to.” “Like what?” “She distracts herself by listening to loud music and drowning out all bothersome thoughts. I’m sure it’s quite effective for her, but I simply don’t have the hearing capacity to endure that kind of prolonged ‘distraction’.” “No, I’d imagine not,” you say, grimly. Even you had barely come out of one of Vinyl’s parties with your hearing intact. Taking a leaf out of her book would likely render you deaf, if you ever took her up on the offer. “So, you see,” says Octavia, “as much as I hate to say so, I’ve become my own hindrance in this trialsome affair.” “When your own worst enemy is yourself,” you mutter, more to yourself than to Octavia. “I know what that’s like.” “I’ve been at my wit’s end,” says Octavia, who doesn’t seem to have heard you, “so when I saw the advertisement for your affection therapy, I was more than willing to give it a try. I won’t be so dramatic as to say it’s my last hope, but it’s a hope nonetheless.” “Well, I’ll certainly do what I can for you,” you say, genuinely. “I don’t know if it will relieve you of your composer’s block, but I can at least try to help you relax and get your mind off your worries.” Octavia raises her head from your hand, smiling gratefully at you. “That’s all I can ask for, dear,” she says. You smile back, happy to see her looking happy again. “Are you ready to begin, then?” you ask. “Yes,” says Octavia. “But before you do, could I ask for a small favor?” “Of course,” you say. “I spied your phonograph over there,” says Octavia, pointing to it. “Could I see what music you have for it?” Aha! You were wondering when you might actually get some use from that, and how fitting for a pony like Octavia to notice. “Oh, certainly. One moment.” You get up and cross over to the cabinet under the phonograph. You unearth your collection of records from inside it and bring them over, handing them to Octavia. One by one, she flips through them, scrutinizing the covers closely. At last, she settles on one that seems to satisfy her, as she nods and hands it to you on top of the others.  You see that she’s chosen a record devoted to atmospheric music mixed with the sounds of nature. It’s a personal favorite of yours, actually. “Would you mind putting this record on?” she asks. “Not at all,” you say. You place the record in and start it up. A soothing melody comes trickling out, mixed with the gentle sound of rushing water. Octavia’s features instantly relax. “The perfect accompaniment,” she says, dreamily. “Now I’m ready, dear. Could we begin with an ear scratch?” “Absolutely,” you say. “Make yourself comfy.” Slowly and gently, with as much possible decorum, Octavia lowers herself onto her stomach, so that her head is resting across your knees. She really needn’t go through so much ceremony, especially when Vinyl isn’t around anymore, but you suppose that’s just the way she is.  You begin rubbing at the base of her right ear. Her eyelids have already started to become droopy from the music playing, but now they close completely as she smiles and sighs contentedly. “Wonderful,” she murmurs. “So simple, but so soothing.” She nestles deeper against you as you continue. The song goes on, the sound of water soon changing to the sound of wind blowing, intermingled with birdsong. It makes you feel a little drowsy yourself, and you can even feel your eyelids getting heavy, but you have to keep yourself awake. Octavia’s the one in need of rest and peace of mind, after all. You switch over to the other ear, and Octavia shifts and sighs again. After the stress and panic you had seen in her only moments ago, it does your heart good to see her looking so peaceful. The ambience of the song now changes to the sound of raindrops falling, filling the room with a gentle pitter-patter. You’ve moved on now to chin scratches, supporting her head with the palm of one hand as you stroke her chin with the fingers of your other hand. She suddenly starts humming softly, and you can feel the vibration of it, exactly like the purring of a cat. Not only that, but just like Vinyl’s rhythmic hoof thumps, you find that Octavia’s hum has an oddly musical quality to it. It sounds like she’s going through the range of scales, from one do to the next, and back again. It’s not just Vinyl who has music in her veins, it seems. After a time, while you’re still administering chin scratches, Octavia opens her eyes, yawns, stretches, then sits up. “Is everything all right, Octavia?” you ask. “Oh, yes,” she says. “I’m feeling much better already. I was just going to ask if we could move on to a belly rub.” “Oh, of course,” you say. “Whatever you like.” “Well, in that case, I have…another small request,” says Octavia, now sounding a bit awkward. “What would that be?” you ask. Octavia hesitates for a moment, runs a hoof through her silky locks, then asks, “Would it be all right if I placed myself…like this?” So asking, she shifts over so that she’s seated with her rump on your lap, and with her back against your front. She looks up at you with those pretty eyes of hers. “I saw the way you administered one to Vinyl,” she says, “and I imagine it’s how most of your clients receive one, but I just feel like I could really use both a hug and a tummy rub at the same time, if that’s all right.” There’s something so polite and innocent in this request, and in the way she’s looking up at you, that you’re struck for a moment or two, giving your already malleable heart time to melt anew. “Of course it’s all right, Octavia,” you say, kindly. “I can easily make that work for you.” You draw one arm around her and draw her in close to you, whereupon she places her forehooves on that arm, and you place your other hand on her middle. She shifts herself so that she’s as snuggled up against you as she can be, and lays her head back against your chest, just under your chin. “How’s this?” you ask. “Perfect,” Octavia murmurs. “Thank you.” “Of course.” With that, you begin slowly rubbing circles along her slim belly. Though she had already snuggled up against you, you can feel her body relax from her shoulders downwards, and her head tilts so that her cheek is against your chest. She lets out a long, deep sigh, and you feel her hooves take a firmer grip on your other arm. This isn’t the first time you’ve administered belly rubs in this way, and it likely won’t be the last, either. The ambience of the song has once again changed, going from the sound of raindrops to the sound of the wind rustling tree branches. Octavia continues to rest against you, a little smile on her face, as you hold her gently to you and rub her stomach. If the vestiges of her bout of panic had already begun to vanish, they’re completely gone by now. She looks as peaceful as if she was having the most blissful dream imaginable.  You can probably guess what she’d be dreaming about: coming up with the perfect cello solo and wowing her audience. In your mind’s eye, you can practically see her on stage, her cello propped at her side, her bow in her hoof, standing amidst her fellow musicians, with a packed auditorium watching, Vinyl’s vivid blue mane standing out like a sore thumb. As you continue rubbing, you can hear Octavia humming again, not to mention feel it reverberate through her barrel. It's very curious humming, too, as you noted before. It’s not quite like the idle hum of someone walking along with a song in their head; it’s much more subdued than that. It’s a quieter, softer sound, barely a murmur of a hum, if there even is such a comparison for that. It’s as if she’s humming in her sleep, the same way some ponies might talk in their sleep. You’ve never seen anything like it, but, as you concluded before, perhaps this is simply evidence of her love of music, to the point that’s in her very blood. As this goes on, with the ambient music playing and you rubbing her belly, she continues to hum, and as she does, it starts to gain definition. At first, it seemed like a few scattered notes, done for practice’s sake. Now, however, you can discern a definite melody to it. It doesn’t sound like any song you’ve heard before, but it certainly sounds like a song being hummed along to, a song already in her head. Also, the longer and clearer she hums, the bigger the smile on her face as she dozes on. Whatever this melody is, it’s making her very happy. The clock suddenly chimes its 5 minute warning. Octavia opens her eyes drowsily, yawning. You remove your hand from her belly, and she releases your arm, turning around to face you. She looks nothing short of joyful. “I take it you feel better?” you ask, smiling. “I feel wonderful,” she says. “Better than wonderful. I feel like a great weight’s been lifted off my shoulders.” “I’m glad to hear that,” you say, “and I’m happy to have helped.” “You’ve done much more than that,” says Octavia, with earnest sincerity. “My mind feels clearer than it has in days. To think that what I needed to empty my mind and take my thoughts off of an impending deadline was a few simple scratches and a belly rub.” You blink. “Are you saying…” you begin, in amazement. Octavia nods. “I think I finally know what to do for my performance,” she says. “I finally have a song to use for my cello solo, and it’s all thanks to you.” Is that what that humming was about? Had she actually overcome her composer’s block and discovered a melody at last? And all from that one session? You’d certainly hoped you’d help ease her mind and take it off of music, but you weren’t expecting it to disappear all in a single session. Was this some new hidden power of affection therapy? Erasing creativity blocks? Before you can express your surprise, or even say anything, for that matter, she leans up and gives you a kiss on the cheek, followed by a warm, tight hug, nuzzling you. You’re far too caught off guard to know how to respond to this, and you feel your face grow a bit hot. Still, you put your arms about her and return the hug, and you hear her sigh happily. You let go of each other, and you lend her a hand back down onto the floor. She trots to the door, then turns to face you. “Thank you again, dear,” she says. “I’ll send you a ticket for the performance, as a token of my gratitude. I’ll make sure it’s one of the best seats in the house, so you get the full experience.” Your bemusement comes undone at this kind sincerity, and you smile. “I’d be delighted to see you and your ensemble perform, Octavia,” you say, graciously. You put a hand to your heart and give her a short bow. Octavia gives you a glowing smile, bows in return, then takes her leave. You hardly know what to think. Yesterday was wild and eventful enough, but just today, you’ve had a great and powerful client, a double-showing which turned into an unexpected double-session, and a pair of sessions resulting in a brief glimpse under the mask of a DJ and a cured case of composer’s block. This is only your second day at the spa, and even though it’s about to come to a close with one more session, you’re not sure whether you can handle any more surprises like what you’ve just experienced.